


A Valentine For The Devil

by ABitchDoesNotADomMake



Category: Daredevil (TV), MCU, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Matts a little slow on the uptake, Other, Soul-Searching, not my usual fare, self-examination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 13:32:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6008134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABitchDoesNotADomMake/pseuds/ABitchDoesNotADomMake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Happy Valentine's Day!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Valentine For The Devil

It started off simply. An envelope, weighted down by a rock, addressed to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen left on the fire escape outside a nondescript apartment. Inside, a hand drawn card, in crayon, from the daughter of the woman he rescued from a mugging a few nights earlier. A few days later it was a small box of traditional Chinese herbals left on the roof of the acupuncturists shop that he had prevented from being the latest arson target in a growing protection racket. Notes, small gifts, sometimes flowers, all being left in dark spaces and high places for him.

 

Matt wasn’t sure what to think. Each time he came across a thank you, he was torn. His inner turmoil about his night job was in no way diminished by the reduction in police interest, or by the increasingly more positive articles and opinion pieces in the daily rags. He still felt guilt every time he dumped a half-conscious body outside the police station, every time he washed blood from his hands, or his suit, at the end of the night. Guilt for not heeding his father’s admonitions to use his brain instead of his fists, and guilt for the unholy pleasure he felt when flying across the rooftops in pursuit of those he had singled out for his attention. Guilt for the sheer joy of pummeling someone until they told him what he needed to know.

 

The streets turned slushy as the snows began to melt, the alleys and backstreets a morass of dirt and mud and trash. The fire escapes and rooftops were still slick and dangerous compared to the summer months, making the dark shadows of the ground level still the safest bet when hunting the animals of Hell’s Kitchen at night (risk was one thing, but stupid, unnecessary risk was another thing entirely). The city seemed to know, somehow, that his paths had moved lower, and the cards and notes were wrapped now in plastic bags, Ziploc or shopping, depending on the affluence of the gifter, he supposed. Blessings and prayers offered on his behalf for putting an abusive, drug addicted boyfriend behind bars. Gratitude (and more prayers) for the absence of dealers and gang-bangers in the small park near the orphanage (he was especially torn at that one), a thank you for the sudden disappearance of a slum lord who had been threatening evictions if certain tenants hadn’t offered him “favors” (that one came with an entirely unappealing offer of those same favors as part of the thank you). Matt turned to Foggy in this, as in practically everything else, looking for answers.

 

“You aren’t some guy taking on things so big that they are beyond even thinking about, Matt. You are a hero to them because you take care of the problems that are beneath the scope of someone like Captain America, or Iron Man. You are looking after their problems, not the problems of the whole world. You can only be so concerned about space alien monsters when you can’t get into your building because some sleaze ball is on your stoop harassing you.” Foggy looked over the top of his coffee cup at Matt, closed into his office, trying to keep the conversation low enough that Karen couldn’t overhear. Matt’s glasses lay on the desk, his eyes closed, his head turned down. The pained look on his face made Foggy want to shake him, really. Then hug him. Maybe both at once. “Look” he continued, “you feel grateful for things people do for you. Hottie McNurserson, for example. Or Karen. Or me. You thank us, buy us lunch, restock the med kit of doom. The things we do for you; we do them because we can. Because we love you. And you feel grateful. Same thing here.” Foggy leaned back in his chair, relaxed, with the smile that said he knew he had stated his case.

 

“But I’m not a hero, Fog.” Matt sighed. “I’m as bad as the bad guys, really. Using fists and violence to get my way. Just because the things I am trying to get aren’t for me, but for others, doesn’t make me a hero.” Matt shook his head, knowing that Foggy was just going to reiterate his case, continue to defend the appreciation that others were showing to Daredevil. For a guy who hated what Matt was doing, he had certainly come around to the defense pretty quickly. Which he did, again and again, until Matt was exasperated and tired.

 

“Maybe” was all Matt would say. He turned to his case file on the desk, put his glasses back on, and looked up at Foggy “We should go over this deposition now, though. Doesn’t do any good to get a guy arrested if we can’t put him away, right?”

 

Matt begged off of another Friday night at Josie’s, knowing that Foggy was either going to spend the evening talking about Marci, making a mooning face at Karen, or, most likely, both. He walked slowly home, his surroundings barely making a dent in his thoughts. There were more street merchants out than usual, he thought in passing. Flowers (mostly old, dying roses with little scent), balloons he could hear bumping against one another in the slight breeze, (horrifically) cheap perfume… He slowed a bit, thinking. Valentine’s Day weekend, the date came rushing into his head. Of course. Now he was doubly glad he had decided to skip out on the bar, which would be filled with either couples or the hopelessly single, both types desperately drinking to try and put their lives in a better light. Nights of heavy drinking meant more fights and assaults to break up or prevent. Matt sighed, turning into the bodega at the corner of his street to pick up a sandwich and some past its prime fruit. He would need to eat before it got late and he had to suit up.

 

“Hope is a part of love, Matthew” Father Lantom intoned, frothing the foam on Matt’s latte just so before handing the cup over and sitting down. “The hope of something better, of a world with less fear and pain, a world where simple dreams have a possibility of coming true… that is love, Matthew. You show your city love every night, and people are thankful for it.” Matt sighed. “I know what you’re going to say, Matthew. But I can’t agree with you. You are loved for your actions, and for the results of those actions. Oh, not by everyone, I am sure, but by those whose lives you have touched, improved, certainly. And remember… It isn’t up to you to tell someone else how to love. That is a personal choice and decision.”

 

“Father, it isn’t that I question people’s right to love, however that love may be expressed. It is that my own actions are of questionable value, if not questionable results. Isn’t there harm in loving the devil? Shouldn’t people strive to love what is good, rather than what is expedient?”

 

“Do you consider yourself a martyr, Matthew? Sacrificing yourself for what is good and right? Saint Valentine was a martyr, you know.” Matt nods, thinking of the gruesome stories of the patron saint of love. “Martyrs come to awful ends, you know. I would hope that you don’t aspire to something like that.”

 

“I am not good enough to be a martyr, Father. My motives serve myself as much as they serve the greater good, I’m afraid. No… I am just… uncomfortable, I guess would be the best way to put it. I don’t need gifts. I don’t need thanks.”

 

“But perhaps others need to give them Matthew. Think on that, when you have the time.” Father Lantom eased back in his chair, sipping at his coffee and studying the man across from him.

 

Stepping out into the cold Saturday morning sun, leaving the warmth of the rectory behind him, Matt wandered towards home. His head was full of circling thoughts, Father Lantom’s words turning around and jumping back into the fray as soon as he had pushed them out. Not appreciating the thanks he was given by others… the love, to use the good Father’s word, was that wrong of him? Did it devalue what he did, to not accept the grateful appreciation that came after? Were the gifts he was being given, the notes and cards and Band-Aids, were those as important to someone else as tossing a rapist on the precinct steps was to him? He had always perceived his self-imposed isolation as a safeguard, as a method of protecting those few people who were truly important in his life. But was it possible, that just maybe, he was depriving them of the same need to help, to provide, and to protect that he based his own life on? Matt moved to the inner edge of the sidewalk and leaned his back against the closest building, frozen as revelation spread through him.

 

He loved. Matt loved Foggy, and Karen, and Claire, and Father Lantom. And more than that, they were names, and faces (so to speak) that were representative of everyone in Hell’s Kitchen. He loved, and in loving, protected and fought for, and yes… thanked those who did for him. What he did, what he gave, might be different (not bigger, he thought carefully, just different) than a cup of coffee, or an arm to lean on after a night at Josie’s; different from a laugh after a morning of paperwork and research, different from a scolding in the dark of night as yet another set of stitches was put in place. But he thanked those he loved for those moments of protection and hope and joy… and it hurt him when his thanks was brushed aside. He was hurting people when he isolated them, when he tried to protect them from himself and his life. Never, never had he meant to hurt. Well, not to hurt the innocent.

 

Stunned, Matt reached for his phone, quietly telling it to dial Karen.

 

“Karen? Hey. What are you doing tomorrow? I was thinking that maybe you and Foggy and I could go get some brunch or something.” He chuckled at something she said, pushing off the wall and walking slowly into the day. “I know it’s Valentine’s Day! I wanted to maybe spend some time with two of my favorite people in the world. What’s so weird about that?” Matt walked, talking and tapping his cane, a smile spreading across his handsome face, chuckles punctuating his conversation as he made plans for the Devils Valentine’s Day.


End file.
